


the show won’t ever end (and the encore lasts forever)

by blake0tyler



Series: everything I ever wanted (I have had like houses haunted) [1]
Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, best damn show I've seen in a while, emotional girlfriends, keep them protected at all costs, they really do live their best life for a while
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27124832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blake0tyler/pseuds/blake0tyler
Summary: Down—Deep down—You dream of grass against your bare legs, the smell of dirt and lavender, of dark red lipstick smeared across your neck.//[ Time is like confetti; Dani & Jamie, and a way to fix it ]
Relationships: Dani Clayton/Jamie
Series: everything I ever wanted (I have had like houses haunted) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007328
Comments: 43
Kudos: 443





	the show won’t ever end (and the encore lasts forever)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The plot of Bly Manor is as good as perfect, so I didn’t really want to change anything there; these are snapshots of Dani + Jamie in the timeline of the show as well as ‘missing scenes’, so to say. Thing is, I couldn’t resist a fix-it fic so I’m not saying it isn’t also that ;) Title from Rex Orange County’s “Pluto Projector”

“I have a story.”

You sleep.

“It isn’t really my story.”

You wake.

“It belongs to someone I knew.”

You walk.

:::

In every which way, this is where it starts—

—with her muddy boots on the kitchen floor and a quick glance your way as the only acknowledgment that something is beginning here.

She screws the faucet open and says something witty to the kids, and you don’t register any of it because you’re too busy thinking _God_ and _Oh, right, the gardener_ and _God, Dani, don’t stare._ Your breathing hitches at the back of your throat. You are suddenly very aware of the frizzy fabric of your lilac sweater, of the effort it takes to redirect your focus to the conversation. 

This is the memory, but in your memory, this time, it spills out differently.

Time is like confetti.

You watch her walk to that sink, all dirty fingers and pretty charm, but instead of staying at the table, you get up. Make your way towards her until she’s meeting your eyes, until you’ve got her looking right back at you. This time, you grab one of her hands, still wet with water, smile at the surprise on her face, and say, “There you are.”

_It’s you. It’s me. It’s us._

After all, that’s what it feels like, memory or not. 

Like, out of nowhere, there she is.

:::

Every time Jamie makes eye contact with you during that lunch, you’re aware of how fast your heart is hammering away inside your chest—the quick beat of it, the way she seems to already know how to get it to race with just a look. 

:::

When the kids lock you in the closet, and Eddie’s face won’t leave your panicked vision for the entire night; when Flora takes his glasses, of all things, and you barely make it down the grand stairs of Bly Manor and out of the house—

The last thing you need is her.

But there she is.

That feeling, again.

Like something around you is changing, like your world is clicking into place, is reconfiguring itself into something that’s going to be quite different now. Something shapeless, something like water, suddenly becoming clear—

“… so if it’s child raising advice you’re after…”

You laugh.

The sound escapes your throat like a sob, but you laugh. You don’t even know her, but she’s making you laugh. And you can’t explain why your breathing is slowing down despite the fact that she’s barely even said anything.

“It’s not so bad, right?”

You wipe at your eyes. “Yeah.”

“I cry, maybe, three, four times a day around here.” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice. “Five, if I’m really being honest with myself.”

It makes you turn around, glance over your shoulder at where she’s standing a few feet behind you; hands in the pockets of her dungarees, flannel hanging open. For a second, your eyes get stuck on her bare collarbones, before meeting her eyes as she says, “How else d’you think I keep all these fucking plants watered?” Her lips twitch into a smirk. “With my endless well of deep, inconsolable tears, that’s how. It’s what got me the job in the first place.”

You chuckle again, feeling the way the air moves deeper in and out of your lungs, calmer now. Still, you know your face is red, eyes teary and swollen, and you feel embarrassed, feel—

“Look,” Jamie says. “You’re doing great.”

You scoff a little, wipe harder at your eyes.

But she’s not fazed.

“You’re doing great,” she repeats with emphasis, and you turn to look at her, feel the way she means it.

“Thank you,” you say, the first controlled words you’ve said.

Jamie nods. “Any time.” She bends forward, lifts the buckets—and you try not to notice the way her arms flex as she does it; for God’s sake, your mind is all over the place, isn’t it? Jamie clears her throat. “All right, well, back to it, then. Chin up, Poppins.”

Your own smile takes you by surprise, a swooping feeling in your stomach, and you watch her walk backwards, out of your sight. You turn to look over your other shoulder until she’s completely disappeared, and then you’re left alone, breathing up at the sky, feeling shaky and yet strangely comforted at the same time.

:::

Miles destroys all her flowers.

She’s angry, _so_ angry with him. And you’re trying, you’re trying to soften the situation, both her fury and Miles’ mistake, saying, _Hey_ , and _Hey, he’s just a kid,_ but she’s so fired up _—_ you can feel it radiating off her as she takes the ripped up roses in her hands and gets to her feet, and—

The next thing you know you’ve got your hand on her shoulder, on her arm and she’s right in front of you.

All that heat suddenly up close.

“They were just a few flowers.”

“Oh, yeah, sure—well, that’s _fine_ , then _._ ”

You’re trying. “A little boy cut a few flowers, what’s the big—”

She steps right up to you. “They weren’t ready to be cut!”

It shuts you up. There’s a blazing fire in her eyes and for a second, as she says it, you can feel her breath, close to your mouth, and that’s—

You stare at her, struck silent.

She stares back for a heated instant, before feeling the impact of her explosive anger seep away in the air between you. She sighs, steps back, tries again. “Look, I just—” She pauses, all pent-up energy, but there’s something honest and a little bit vulnerable under it as she states, “I have a way of doing things, and I don’t like people messing about with my garden—”

“No.” It snaps you back into focus. “You’re right.” She looks uncertain and you hold her gaze. “You’re right. I’ll talk to him.”

Her shoulders sag. She breathes. “Of course.”

There’s a weird sort of urge in your body to step forward, to close that space again and have her breath hit your mouth, to calm her down more. But you’re too dazed to do anything with the impulse.

Besides—

You’re not—

You can’t feel—

Jamie licks at her bottom lip, and exhales, gets herself together as she says, “Look, can we just go back to the bit where—” For some reason, her gaze flicks up and down your body. “—you were acting mental and I had to talk _you_ down?”

You laugh, feeling heat rise to your cheeks for no reason at all. She keeps her eyes on you a moment longer, that cheeky, daring smile curling wider slowly. You really can’t stand how close yet far away she is; the flush of her cheeks, her pale skin, those damned collar bones.

Jamie shakes her head like it’s funny, and you feel caught.

But it doesn’t feel like a bad thing at all when she winks at you, then says, “Come on, Poppins. Let’s get back.”

:::

The night you search for Peter Quint and keep watch over the children, you think you properly register the feeling for the first time.

She scares the death out of you, of course, with that gun and that angry determination. You’re jumpy and on edge, still too freaked out by what you saw, to really pay attention to her.

But then you settle down by the fire, and something, below the surface of your anxiety, starts to simmer.

She really—

God, she’s really—

Even the thought of the word _attractive_ makes you burn up. The way she slouches on the couch, one knee pulled up, looking at you over the rim of her cup as she speaks; you know you’re not supposed to notice it, but it’s there either way. The urge to be closer to her. To run your hands through that messy hair and—

It gets worse when she switches seats until she’s next to you, glancing over at Owen and Hannah, all cuddled up.

“Rather that was you curled up there?” Her voice is low. “Every girl in the village is mad for him. He doesn’t even know it, which makes it even worse.”

She sips her drink and you can’t help but laugh a little bit, thinking she should be able to feel the heat coming off your body. You want to say something in response.

Something about how you’re not—

How it’s not Owen who’s on your mind at all, but really—

Instead, you focus on the picture of Peter Quint and Rebecca Jessel in your hand. “They look like Bonnie and Clyde…”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, “If Clyde fucked Bonnie over.” You can see the way the anger clouds her face again. “He got away, she paid the price.”

You frown. “So, what? He’s stalking a dead woman? Risking prison for someone he didn’t even bother to bring along—that doesn’t make any sense.”

Jamie’s eyes are steady on yours. “The wrong kind of love can fuck you up, follow you, make you do some really stupid shit.” Something tightens in your body. “And those two, believe me, that was the wrong kind of love.”

Your voice is hoarse. “We’ve all been in the wrong kind of love for one reason or ano—”

“But I saw how he twisted himself into her,” Jamie says, cutting through the end of your sentence. “Buried in deep. I don’t know why so many people mix up love an possession…” She glances over at you again. “But guess what that means? He didn’t just trap her, he trapped himself—and I hope she haunts that fucker forever.”

You can feel how much she means it, how _wrong_ it really must have been, for Jamie to speak about it this way now.

You stare at the picture, pausing on a thought. “People do, don’t they?” you say then. “Mix up love and possession.”

Jamie’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, they do.”

“I don’t think that should be possible.” You watch her swallow thickly. “I mean, they’re opposites, really, love and ownership.”

She doesn’t break eye contact, taking it in slowly, frowning slightly before a hint of something different crosses her face. Almost like she’s registering a thought that was still out of reach a moment before.

“Yeah,” she says softly.

And there it is—

Right there—

You’ve felt it with different girls. You’ve felt it in college; girls in your lecture halls who held your gaze a second too long. You’ve felt it when you were trying on your wedding dress; a hand placed low on your back, a compliment about your shoulders.

You’ve felt it, but never like _this._

Not with your breath speeding up, your thoughts tripping over themselves, tumbling from registering that Jamie is objectively attractive to the realization that you’re really fucking attracted to her, and that, maybe—

“They really ought to be in bed.”

Hannah’s voice snaps you out of it. You push the blankets off in a daze, watch Jamie pick Flora up off the floor and carry her out of the room. Jamie chuckles when Flora mumbles _you’re the coolest_ , and you’re smiling, unsure what to do with yourself as you follow them, and all the while your heart is beating fast. 

:::

Things get worse.

When Owen’s mother dies, you don’t want her to leave. You’re left on the lawn together with Jamie, watching the car drive off and you know she’ll get into her truck and take off to, but you don’t want her to leave; can’t bear the thought, really.

You’re thinking about telling her, but instead what comes out is, “I’m so glad you stayed.”

For a moment, it sounds unfinished, and you wonder if she can hear what’s beneath the words—how you’re unexpectedly so scared about her leaving, how somehow, over the course of the past few days, you’ve come to quite need her company.

Jamie gives you a soft smile. “I am, too.”

She turns to face you, not saying anything, but not getting into her truck either. Her eyes are searching, waiting; almost like she’s curious to see what you will do with the moment.

Time is like confetti.

You swallow hard, try to think of saying something, or kissing her maybe _—_ something to let go, so that she will know. But then, you lean forward and grasp her hand, squeezing it tight, needing to hold on instead.

Jamie’s inhale is a little unsteady as you rub your thumb over the back of her hand. But then the corner of her mouth curls and she moves to pull open the door of the truck.

“Who the hell knew,” she says, and the way the words settle low in body makes you feel like you gave it away, anyway—that she _does_ know whatever you’re trying to let her in on.

You step back, blink hard, then watch her go.

:::

You’re lost in thought when she knocks on the door. “You decent?”

“Come in.”

She appears, in a dress, with lipstick on, and jewelry, and for a moment it’s enough to make you snap out of your panicked daze. “You look…”

Jamie grins. “I can scrub up when I need to.”

Your mind feels clouded. She takes a seat at the edge of your bed, says some things about the funeral, about your dress. _Does look a bit like you’re trying to scandalize the village._ She’s teasing you lightly, clearly trying to get you to smile, but in all honesty, you don’t know if you’re up for this. Any of this. You can’t stop biting your lip, can’t stop running a hand through your already messy hair.

And then, Jamie says, “Honestly, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

Just the thought of it feels like relief. “Really?”

“He said as much. Was pretty clear.”

You bring your hands up to your head, run them through your hair, again. “Okay, that’s—that’s a relief actually. I had a funeral in my own life.” Eddie’s face in your mind, always the painful shock of the image. “Not so long ago.” You stumble out the words. “And I feel like this is—eh—”

“Hey. Poppins.” Jamie’s up on her feet, grabbing your elbows. “It’s your day off.” She gives you a reassuring smile. “I promise, I don’t need you to be my date to Owen’s mum’s funeral.”

She’s trying to get you to smile, and you do. You laugh softly, leaning into the comfort of her closeness, feeling the lightness of the word _date_ , how easily she says it, despite everything.

“Okay,” you breathe out. “Okay. Then, can you help me get this thing off?”

You pull on the edge of your dress and Jamie makes a face. “Blimey.”

She clears her throat and it makes you laugh harder.

You like her so much.

“No, seriously. The, uh—the zipper.”

She moves behind you, hand on your back, and out of nowhere—

That thing, _that awful thing_ —

You gasp and startle away from her, shaken.

“Did I pinch you?” Jamie’s voice is laced with concern.

“No.”

You shake your head, shake—

“I’m sorry,” you add.

“All right.” Jamie nods. “Well, I’ll be back in a few hours, and if I find out you’ve not been relaxing—” She tries to sound serious, but you can hear the effort to make you smile again, to make you calm again, to make you think of anything else, like she’s always so ready to do whenever you’re panicked. “—there’ll be serious consequences.”

It works, because of course it does. All her wit and her charm. You chuckle, and part of you wants to pull her in, to tell her, _no, don’t go to the funeral, stay here with me._ But she’s stepping towards the door, giving you that smile that makes your heart race. She glances over her shoulder to look back at you, to check in one last time, and you really do like her so much.

So, so much.

:::

It’s like, every time she looks at you, for a second you can’t breathe.

All the clichés are true.

There’s a swooping feeling in your stomach every time she walks into the room. You catch your thoughts drifting off to her, to all sorts of things. You wonder what she was like as a kid; if she had a gap-toothed smile and scraped knees, if she had little pots with flowers by her window. You wonder if she thinks about you, and _what_ she thinks about you, and if your tea really is that awful or if she’s just talking along with Hannah. You wonder, when you’ve closed the door to your bedroom and attempt to distract yourself from the quiet and the dark as you try to fall asleep, whether she feels about girls the way you feel about girls, and if she does, how long she has felt that way, and what it means, then, when she looks at you the way she does. You wonder if she’d kiss you. You wonder what it would feel like to have her slide a dress zipper down your back on a different day or night. What her skin would feel like, naked and—

She’s waiting for you in the hallway to walk to the bonfire together. You can’t ignore the tiny spark of warmth in your stomach at the realization that she wants you there.

As you sit by the fire, the four of you, you let the wine slowly blur the edges of your consciousness. It’s both awful and beautiful, this night in the darkness, where so much of what is happening is wrapped around grief and panic and despair.

You speak of the death.

Of Rebecca. Of Dominic and Charlotte. Of Owen’s mother. Your throat goes tight when Owen says, “So, they left out all the bad stuff. And the good stuff. They didn’t say how funny she was, how she would wink at you from across the breakfast table.”

You drink to the dead.

You want to drown yourself in the drink.

You want to drown yourself until you don’t ever have to feel this way. In a way, you’ve got no idea what you’re wishing for. 

:::

When you eventually leave Owen and Hannah by the fire, and it’s just you and Jamie making your way to the greenhouse, you don’t know that you’re moments away from kissing her.

All the shadows, the ghosts of your past. It doesn’t seem the kind of night to kiss someone.

And yet—

Jamie motions for you to sit down next to her, takes another swig of the bottle. “I’m not going to ask if you’re alright,” she starts. “Because I don’t like being lied to. So, what’s wrong?”

You didn’t plan on telling her. You didn’t plan on telling anyone.

And yet—

“I thought I saw—” You backtrack, decide instead on, “Peter Quint.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“No, of course not.” You can feel that she’s watching you, waiting, and so you try again, try to give her a little bit more. “It’s not the first time I’ve… seen things that aren’t there.”

“So, what else?”

If you could give her the truth without saying a single word, you would hand it over in a heartbeat. It’s saying it out loud that’s the difficult part.

“Well…” You turn to meet her eyes. “I, uh—I… I guess I… told you about my fiancé… earlier, didn’t I?”

You can’t even remember. You can’t remember if you’ve ever said anything, not to Jamie personally, at least, but you know there must have been a time, in the kitchen, over dinner or lunch, when Edmund’s name must have come up.

And the details don’t matter, because Jamie’s already saying, “Oh, you did. Yeah. I was hoping we’d get ‘round to that one.”

You nod and meet her eyes, fleetingly, because there’s something under the words that feels out of place in the conversation. Just like you’re not sure you should even be sitting this close to her, or want to be this close, or have half your mind wondering why she smells like lavender, if it’s the flowers, or some type of shampoo, or—

You constantly feel like you’re being pulled in opposite directions; all the dark on the one side, and Jamie’s eyes on you like this on the other.

“We were…” You try to tell her. “We were engaged. And h—he died. He died and I… I sometimes, it’s like—I see him.”

Your voice trembles when you say it, your breathing uneven. Jamie doesn’t respond. She doesn’t react besides a kind of softening in her expression, something aching and careful, like the confession of you hurting over this is what gets to her, rather than the fact that he’s dead.

“I’ve never told anybody that,” you breathe out. 

Jamie leans in closer. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“We were about to break up,” you say, because this seems important. “We, uh—I’d broken—we _had_ broken up, I’d broken up, I guess. Right before.” You look her in the eyes. “I mean, right before.”

She frowns. “Jesus, Dani, the same day?”

“Yeah.”

She’s quiet for a second, just taking that in. Then, her frown deepens. “Is he here now?”

Part of you wants to think this is a ridiculous question, but you can’t bring yourself to feel it. Not with all the shadows of this manor. Not with how unsteady you feel.

You bite down on your bottom lip, glance around, try and look deeper into the shadows to see if—

“No,” you say.

“Good,” Jamie says, and there’s a bit of fire in her voice. “‘Cause, you know, I’ll sort him out for you if I have to.” She raises her eyebrow, kind of daringly, and then adds, over her shoulder, “Oi! Dead boyfriend? Give it up, mate! It’s over!”

You feel your whole heart swell, can’t stop your smile.

She smiles back at you, then leans in. “Seriously, Poppins. How are you still standing?”

You feel the grimace cross your face. “Think I’m crazy?”

Jamie is all the way up in your space, soft and sweet, when she replies, “I think you’re surprisingly sane, considering.”

Her arm is folded over the back of the bench. She’s close, so _close_.

“Look,” she says, and your gaze drops to her mouth, because you can’t help it. The soft exhale of the word when she says it drawing you in. “I know what it feels like. To feel like you can’t find your—”

You press forward without thinking, and then your mouth is on hers, and you’re kissing her, _kissing her,_ pulling her closer, wanting more, more—

She pauses you, thumb on your jaw. “You sure?”

You’re trembling, glancing over her shoulder, worried for a moment but thinking _yes, yes, please._ “Yes.”

She smiles, you can feel her smile, eager and pleased, as she closes the gap once again. Your laugh cuts short into the kiss, and then—

You feel like you’re burning up under her touch, feel like you’re set aflame, right in this greenhouse.

You pull her as close as you can, revel in the taste of her, the heat of her—

She’s got a hand in your hair and you’re pulling on her jacket, feeling like you’re going to die if you don’t get her even closer, _die_ if you—

You startle back in terror.

“ _Okay_.” Jamie rocks back, hand flying up to her mouth. “So.”

“Right—um.” _Fuck._ “I don’t know what to… I don’t know what to say—” 

She’s turned inwards, not looking at you anymore. “Just forget about it. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, just—”

“Jamie.”

You need her to stay. She looks like she’s moving to get up but you need her to stay.

“You were just telling me,” she continues, kind of rambling. “Literally just telling me that you weren’t up for this.” Again, her hand to her mouth; like she’s nervous, hurt. “Just—let’s…” She gets up. You try to grab her arm. “Let’s get back. Uh, another night, maybe.”

You want to say something. To hold her here with you, but she’s already moving towards the doors. Her voice sounds just a bit cracked. “Another time, maybe.” 

And then she’s gone.

Like you had her and you lost her in the same breath.

:::

You’ll have to find a way to deal with the shadows, then. You have to find a way to stare them in the face and not back down, and so you do.

It’s a long night—you and Eddie by the fire—but all nights end, even the longest ones.

:::

The coffee is a bit of a gamble.

The entire plan is a bit of a gamble, if you’re honest, but you’ve got to do something. You’ve got to—

(You haven’t seen her in a week and you can’t stop thinking about that kiss, and you’ve got to try _something_.)

The greenhouse smells of dew and soil. She looks unfairly pretty.

“Don’t usually see you this early in the a.m.”

Just the sound of her voice, of her accent, her whole _energy_ is enough to make you stumble over your words. “Uh, yeah—well, I, I knew you… I know that you start early on Thursdays. So…” You take a step forward. “I thought I’d bring you some coffee.”

“You Yanks and your coffee.” She keeps her back to you, and you really should have thought this through more, but—

“You might like it!”

You’ve got to try.

Jamie turns and meets your eyes, half smirking before glancing down at the cups. She’s really too damn beautiful. You feel shy when she takes one out of your hands. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

You know you’re smiling like an idiot, but at least you got her to look at you. It’s a small win.

Jamie takes a careful sip, before spitting it out again.

You laugh a little. “I’m not the best at coffee, either.”

Jamie clears her throat. There’s a strained sort of tension between you, and you don’t really know how to ease it up.

“How’s your week been?” Jamie says, thankfully.

You ramble on a bit. About the kids, and how strange everything has been. Without Owen. Without _her_.

She pauses for a second when you say that, makes a humming sort of sound, and you wonder, for a second, if you’re doing the right thing here. If any of this is really making a difference. She’s so hard to read sometimes.

“I seem to see less and less of Hannah. She just—goes out, I guess. By herself. Sometimes I just turn around and she’s—she’s gone.”

You really are just rambling on.

Jamie looks up from the plants. “Sometimes people just need to be alone.”

It hits you harder than expected.

You swallow, the implication clear, alright. Maybe this was all a mistake, after all. Maybe you should just leave her be. You glance at your coffee cup. But then Jamie meets your eyes and something different crosses her face, almost like she only realizes what it sounded like when she sees your face fall.

Her voice is different when she says, “Did you wake up just for this?” 

“ _No_.”

Jamie gives you a pointed look. “You just waited for me to come back.”

“I—I knew you were coming back today,” you stammer out. “But no, no particular reason.”

Her eyebrows are raised. She nods alone with you, then says, “Are the kids awake?”

“Um, no.” Heat rushes to your cheeks. “No, they’re asleep.”

“So, you just got up with the sun,” Jamie says, leaning on the table. “And you’re tiptoeing around the kitchen, making awful coffee by yourself, just to come say hi at six in the morning, for no particular reason?”

God. You’re clearly anything but smooth here, but the way she’s looking at you is worth every second of her teasing tone.

You can’t really take your eyes off her.

Jamie grins. “Poppins, you flirt.”

It’s a wave of heat through your body.

She moves to the other end of the table and you push forward. “Fine,” you say. Open card, then. “I… I don’t like the way we left it.”

“And how did we leave it?”

“Wrong,” you say pointedly. “And—and I wanted to…” She’s so much closer to you now, her mouth upturned as she takes in what you’ve got to say. “I wanted to start doing something right. So I thought I’d start with coffee.”

Jamie purses her lips. “You sure about that? Because every time I think you might be sure, you’ve got this irritating habit of jumping back, like you’ve just seen a scary bug.” There’s something slightly defensive in her voice as she moves to the opposite table. “Maybe that’s best, really.”

Your heart sinks.

Just like that.

She had it in her hands and now she—

“I like you,” Jamie says.

You bite down so hard on your bottom lip it hurts.

She hesitates briefly, then adds, “But I also like my life the way it is. Nice and boring.”

Your brow furrows. Something in you wants to push back against that, wants to knock away every protective layer she’s built around herself. “Yeah, I—I wouldn’t want to disrupt that,” you say, and then—God knows why—you add, in the worst imitation of her accent you can muster, “Gotta keep things proper borin’, ‘aven’t we?”

Miraculously, you hear her snicker behind you.

“Look.” You step up to her. “There’s a pub in Bly, right?”

She smiles a bit. “There is.”

“Would you want to get a drink?” You’ve said it before you can stop yourself. “Away from the house. Away from all this.” And then, because you’ve already started this, because she said _you flirt_ not even a minute ago, and because she looks so fucking gorgeous and you have been aware of it for every second of this entire conversation, you add, daringly, “That could be _kind_ of boring, right?”

The slightest smile. The slightest nod. “Could be dreadfully boring.”

“Okay, so I could ask Hannah to watch the kids one night,” you add in a rush. “And you and me…” Even saying that out loud causes a flutter in your stomach. “could get a boring, old drink…” There’s a hint of a smile on her mouth. “in a boring, old pub…” God, her mouth. “and see where that takes us.”

She looks a tiny bit impressed, and you _revel_ in it.

But then, she plays right back.

“You know I live above that pub, right?” It makes you blush. “Told you that already, didn’t I?” Jamie raises her eyebrows at you. “Got a little flat. Right above the boring, little pub.”

_God._

She’s killing you.

You bite back your smile, try to stop you mind from running along on the implication, imagining yourself in that flat, drinking wine on her couch, maybe. The thought of what could happen in all that privacy—

Jamie is smiling right back at you.

You almost don’t notice Flora out on the field behind her.

But then you do.

:::

You’re worried sick all day, taking care of Flora, trying to get Henry Wingrave on the phone, wondering where Hannah keeps running off to. Your moment from the greenhouse with Jamie this morning disappears all the way to the back of your mind. 

You’re pretty sure she’s already left. But then, she steps into the kitchen, and your heart picks up speed at the realization that she hasn’t. “Hey, I—I thought you left a while ago.”

She looks so hot it makes you blush.

“Made it halfway home,” Jamie says, “And I thought, rough day, maybe Poppins might fancy a little boredom. What do you say?”

It feels like you’re building towards something. There’s so much subtext that you’re losing your head over it, but—

“The kids, I—”

“Already taken care of,” Jamie says and under the swiftness of the words, there’s something almost like desire; like she really is here to steal you away and you better figure out a way to make it happen because this is what she’s here for.

Of course, Hannah steps right up. “I’ve got things handled here. You go and enjoy yourselves.”

“Uh, _we_ have things handled here,” Owen pipes in.

He speaks on, something about nightmares and monsters under the bed, but you can feel Jamie walking up until she’s next to you, and then she takes a hold of your hand, just like that.

_Jesus._

If your heart wasn’t racing yet, it would be now.

“Come on,” she says, tugging.

:::

She takes you to the moonflower on the gate. Talks you through the effort of taking care of it. Says it’s the same for people, says _you_ are a lot of effort. And it’s not really a declaration of love in any way, is it? Quite the opposite, really.

And yet—

When she tells you about her family, it feels like there’s something beyond what she gives away of herself. Something beyond the details of her past. Something in the fact that she’s taking the very effort to tell you at all. 

This girl, this beautiful girl. Who has cared and cared and cared only to be let down in the worst possible ways over and over again—and _still_ she puts her hands in the ground and grows things from this darkness. And she _loves_ it. She loves like this, all hard work and precision and care, and she’s letting you right in on it.

_Everyone is exhaustive. Even the best ones._

“But sometimes,” she says, having given so much of herself away already, but not the most important thing, yet. “Once in a blue goddamned moon, I guess, someone, like this moonflower, just might be worth the effort.”

She turns over her shoulder to look at you.

Your skin feels hot, despite the chill of the night.

“Look, I know you’re struggling,” she says. “I see it. I know you’re carrying this guilt around. But I also know you don’t decide who lives and who doesn’t.”

The words tighten in your throat, and Jamie says, “I’m sorry, Dani, but you don’t. Humans are organic. It’s a fact. We’re meant to die, it’s natural. Beautiful.”

She slowly turns back to the moonflower, smiles a bit, and you can’t take your eyes off her when she adds, “And it all breaks down and rises back up, and breaks down again, and every living thing grows out of every dying thing. We leave more life behind us to take our place.”

Your breath catches in your throat. 

You get up as she speaks.

_The leafling and the flower._

“We leave more life behind to take our place. Like this moonflower.” She smiles at you. “It’s where all its beauty lies, you know. In the mortality of the thing.”

When you kiss her, it’s like your heart expands inside your chest, wider and wider. Her mouth is wet and needy against yours. You pull back, meet her eyes, once, then kiss her again, losing yourself inside the feeling completely. Her arms wrap tight around you, grasping your clothes, holding you closer. You don’t mind the rain. You don’t mind the cold. You’ve never wanted to kiss anyone more than her.

:::

You don’t really know how you make it into the house without waking anyone up.

Both of you are wet from the rain and giddy from making out, boots too loud on the stairs, shivering and trembling as you pull her along with you—without a plan, just the need to not let go of her just yet.

She traps you against the door of your bedroom, kissing you breathless.

“Jamie,” you gasp, when she pulls back, nudges her nose against your jaw and starts to kiss lower. “Jamie, we have to— _oh._ ”

She kisses your pulse and your knees nearly give in. You start to reach blindly for the doorhandle, but Jamie’s quicker. Both of you tumble into the privacy of your bedroom with a laugh, almost knocking right into your dresser.

“Come here,” you breathe out, already reaching for her again. “Please, just—”

You yank on her wet jacket, until she’s right back against you and you kiss her again, hard, licking into her mouth with a reckless sort of abandon you haven’t felt in _years_. Your fingers get tangled in her hair and Jamie moans into your mouth, hands on your hips, pulling you in even more. The rush of arousal hits you so abruptly between your legs that you startle back a bit.

God.

She’s really—

“You’re really—” you breathe out. “—good at that.”

She smirks. “At kissing?”

“All of it.”

Her smile goes flirty as you brush your thumb over her jaw. “That what you think, Poppins?”

You nod breathlessly, and then you kiss her again, tugging on her jacket, pushing it off her shoulders before you can fully register what you’re doing. You’ve already shrugged off your wet coat the moment you entered Bly Manor, and now you’re reaching for the edge of your woolen sweater, but Jamie grabs your hands.

“Let me,” she whispers against your lips. “Please.”

You swallow hard.

“Okay.”

You’re nodding, stepping back a bit, knowing that you must look so thoroughly _kissed_ —lips red and swollen, hair a fucking mess. The way Jamie is staring at you makes you feel heated all over.

“Have you done—I mean, with—” Her voice goes hoarse and she clears her throat, blushing.

You can’t believe you can make her blush.

She toys with the hem of your sweater. “I mean, is this…”

Her thumb connects with your hipbone, the bare skin just above the waist of your jeans and you can’t suppress a shiver. Jamie’s breath quickens as you whisper, “Is this what?”

She kisses you softly, thumb running up, lifting the sweater an inch or two. You can barely stand how slow she’s being, how careful.

“What you want,” she says against your lips. “Is this what you want?”

_God, yes._

“Take it off,” you breathe out, instead. “Jamie, _please_ , take it off. Take it all—”

She kisses you before you can get the words out, hot and searing, and then everything is a blur of clothes on the floor and your legs hitting the edge of the mattress. Jamie’s skin is so soft and pale and hot under your touch. The weight of her, pressing you down, kissing you, over and over again—you’re losing your goddamn mind.

There’s no space to be nervous, really.

She’s got your heart racing, like she has since that first day in the kitchen, and if she would dare to ask you again, whether you’ve ever done this with a girl, you’ll tell her that no, no, you’ve never done this, well, like _this_ —

But, God.

Nothing really compares to the way her mouth feels on your neck, to her hand stroking your hip, your thigh. Nothing compares to the fire in her eyes, the way she’s got your body trembling already. Besides, you’ve always been a quick study—and nothing really compares, either, to the rush of pride that burns through you when you get Jamie to swear right into your mouth as your hand finds its way between her legs.

“Jesus, _fuck._ ” Her voice tips over. “Dani—fuck. _Dani_ —”

You giggle.

She’s wet and already rocking her hips, despite the fact that she’s also protesting, still saying something half cut-off and idiotic like, “You don’t need—I don’t expect—oh my— _Jesus._ ”

You touch her like this, with the angle off and her body trembling into it, anyway.

She falls forward a bit and you use it to flip her over until you’re on top. She’s got her eyes shut, teeth sunk into her bottom lip. She looks more gorgeous than you’ve ever seen her.

“Tell me what to do?” you say, kissing her neck, stroking your fingers through her the way you like to be touched. “Tell me what’s good?”

She makes a sound, rough and soft at the same time, rocking her hips up, letting her legs fall open wider. “Everything—everything is— _fuck, Dani, if you_ —I won’t _—_ ”

You grin as the sentence cuts off in a moan when your fingers slide over her clit and then lower, teasing. “Won’t what?”

She grabs your wrist, pausing you, eyes closed, cheeks flushed. “Won’t last long, love. Not if you’re going to keep that up.”

Your whole body shudders at the words, at the way she calls you _love,_ and then Jamie is pulling on your hips, pulling you in until you’re kissing again, all heat and desire and want. You let her roll you onto your back, let her kiss her way down your breasts, lips ghosting over your nipples. You let her open you with her tongue, and then with her fingers, while yours get tangled in her hair as you gasp into the pillow. She brings you to climax twice before you get to have another try.

But when she finally falls apart with your name in her mouth, everything only tastes sweeter and better and worth it. 

:::

There’s a moment, when you look into the mirror the next morning after you’ve gotten out of bed. Jamie is still naked and asleep in your sheets, and the mirror is just a mirror.

:::

The last thing you want, after the day you’ve had with Flora, all the sleep walking and the sleep talking, is Jamie saying that she’s going home.

“ _Oh_.”

She gives you a grin. “I should change my clothes at least…”

You can’t stop the laugh that escapes you, eyes drifting down for a second on the t-shirt she’s wearing, the one you were taking off of her not even twenty-four hours ago. She’s looking all soft and charming, and you—

God, you really don’t want her to go.

“Well, um,” you stammer, the idea only half formed. “You could… come back.”

She narrows her eyes. “Tonight?”

“Yeah.” It sounds eager. You can’t bring yourself to ease it up. “Tonight.”

She smiles, wide and flirty. “I don’t know, Poppins…” And all you really want to do is pull her in and kiss her, drag her to your room down to hall. Jamie laughs a bit. “I don’t know, you got your hands full.”

She says it like it’s a good enough reason to leave, but at the same time she’s stalling, still here, hand on the dresser, looking at you.

“Well, I’m gonna be up all night, checking up on her, anyway,” you try.

She smiles, steps forward just a bit, but then says, softly, “Good night.” She’s close to you now, warm and safe and soft. “Just good night.” She takes your hands in hers. “There are other nights, and there will be other nights.”

You want to fall into her, want her to hold you like this forever. “You promise?”

She kisses you, just the warm press of her lips on yours, but you can’t help but reach for her, kiss her a little harder, tasting her better, heating it up. She laughs sweetly against your mouth, feeling how much you want it; wanting it just as much.

Her voice is low. “Promise.”

:::

You still wish she’d stayed.

Because this is where the nightmare begins.

:::

Peter Quint sets out to complete his plan—and you thought (hoped) that maybe, for a moment, Bly Manor could have been a love story, but you were wrong; it’s a ghost story, always has been, and this is the price you pay for your moment of bliss. This is the price you pay for thinking you would get to be safe.

:::

The Lady in the Lake takes you with an ice cold hand to the throat, and you’re dying—

Dying—

Aren’t you?

:::

_How many nights? How many walks?_

_Forget, and forget, and forget._

:::

Viola finds the child she lost. She looks at her and makes a decision. She takes her in her arms and holds her close.

She must think this is love; carrying her baby all the way back, down the stairs of the manor, through the grass and the mud and the dirt, and into the lake.

She must think all of this is love.

:::

You wish for lavender as you are dying. You wish for coffee in a greenhouse at six in the morning. You are dying. Choking. _Dying_.

Aren’t you?

You wish for your soft bed. For kisses down the length of your spine and a smile that drives you crazy. A girl you didn’t know two months ago.

:::

A wish. A ghost. A wish.

:::

You gasp. “ _Flora_.”

:::

You wake. You walk. You _run._

:::

The water is like ice, soaking your clothes, soaking your bones. You’re shaking all over. Your voice can barely form the words, but here it goes.

Here’s a ghost story for you, a dark and twist tale—a beast in a jungle.

Takes you in its claws, grips you by the heart, won’t ever let you go now.

:::

 _Shh,_ Jamie says into your ear. _Shh_. It’s okay. It’s okay. Flora’s in your arms. The water won’t try to drag you under. The gravity is broken. The ghosts will sleep forever. Miles is a little boy again—

—and your left eye is a different color.

:::

You sleep by the fire again, all of you, huddled together like young animals in a den, while you wait for light to come.

All nights end, even the longest ones.

:::

Every time you swallow, you think you can swallow her down a little deeper into you—the part of you that’s her. You think, if maybe you try hard enough, you can bury the Lady in the Lake so deep inside yourself that you won’t even know she’s there.

But you can’t.

“It’s quiet… But it isn’t… peaceful.” Your voice is trembling. “It’s rage.”

An angry, empty, lonely beast. That’s what’s gotten inside of you. Only hint of it, yes. But a hint is enough. At some point it’s going to take you completely. She’s going to take you.

Jamie’s face is tear-stained.

She’s right next to you on the bed.

She should run and run and run, you think, until she’s so far away from you that you won’t ever be able to pull her into your gravity. 

“Do you want company?” is what she says, instead. “While you wait for your beast in the jungle?”

It’s almost like a promise—like a pinky wrapped around another pinky, a kiss pressed to your knuckles. A promise to try. A promise to see. A promise not to give up.

She kisses your hand and you love her.

The beast inside of you is angry and empty and lonely, yes. But it’s a speck of dust to your promise, and for now, you will it to sleep.

:::

Bly Manor slowly disappears out of your sight, as you drive off in Jamie’s truck.

The house will rest now, too.

:::

There are other nights, and there will be other nights _—_ and the first one you have away from Bly, you sleep together in the bed of the truck, on top and under a mismatched selection of ugly blankets, in your clothes and between your backpacks, because you’ve got no plan and nowhere to go.

You’ve driven as far as you could from the manor, and now it’s dark.

“We could have picked out a place for the night, you know,” Jamie says, as she shifts and groans, grabbing whatever is poking her in the back and throwing it to the front of the car. “One of those shabby hotels off the road. Sleep in an actual bed, Poppins.”

You wrap your arms tighter around her and laugh softly into her neck. She’s put on your gray zip-up hoodie because of the cold, and you love that tomorrow it will smell like her.

You don’t know how to tell her that you want it to be just the two of you for a bit. No strangers. No whatever may lurk in dark, unfamiliar rooms. Just her and you and some blankets. 

“No,” you mumble. “This is perfect.”

Jamie scoffs, but strokes a lock of hair from your forehead with a careful hand. “Aren’t you cold?”

You shake your head. “I run hot quite easily.”

“Do you? Is that why you’re always in those frizzy pink jumpers?”

You laugh louder, the sound of it muffled by her shoulder. You pinch her arm and Jamie says _hey_ and you want to kiss her, so you do.

It’s only a soft brush of your lips against hers, but then Jamie’s touches your jaw and the kiss deepens.

You’ve got a hand resting on her hip, right where the hem of the hoodie has crept up, and when your thumb runs across her bare skin, Jamie hums into your mouth.

“Dani…” she whispers, and just that, just the way she says your name is enough to make your breath quicken.

You press yourself closer against her, until her hand slides down from your face to your back and she gives in, kissing you again.

“You do run hot,” she mumbles when she pulls back, minutes later. Both of you are panting and Jamie’s palm has slipped up under your shirt, her voice lower as she pulls you closer against her. “Very hot actually…”

It’s not your intention to take it anywhere other than this. It’s not your intention to seduce her into having sex with you in the back of a truck like a high school quarterback. But that very thought—the thought of something as ridiculous and normal as high school, something that has seemed so outside of your reality the past weeks, is enough to make you a little bit giddy.

You kiss her neck, reveling in the way her grip on you tightens when you run your mouth over the soft skin just above her collarbone.

“Oh, yeah?” you whisper. “What are you gonna do about it?”

And again—the flirty tone of it, the over-used cliché, the way Jamie scoffs and laughs and yet kisses you harder because it still _works_. Again, you can’t believe you get to have a moment like this, no less than days after the nightmare.

It makes you want it even more.

Your hand slips up under her hoodie—your hoodie, her hoodie; you love this—with more purpose, but Jamie, of course, slows it down, just for a moment.

“Are you—” she starts. And then, because she doesn’t like asking you if you’re alright, doesn’t want to be lied to, and because neither of you are really alright, but you still deserve to have good things, she grins a bit, and says instead, “Really, Dani? In the back of the truck?”

She drives you half crazy with desire, this girl.

Without even really trying.

Instead of answering, you flick the button of her jeans open, drag the zipper down slowly, and then touch her right over the front of her underwear. “Yes,” you say.

Jamie gasps at your touch.

It’s a bit of a fumble and neither of you ever fully get your clothes off. But you’re laughing and she’s got you wet and wanting, both of you breathless with how good it feels to touch each other at the same time. Breathless with the moment, with everything that might follow it. With the road wide open and no plan, with her mouth on yours and your heart racing.

:::

“One day at a time is fine by me,” she says. “As long as those days are with you, Poppins.”

_One day at a time is what we’ve got. It’s what everybody’s got when you get down to it._

You do make it to Vermont for Christmas.

:::

It’s a tiny cabin on the edge of some small town where the streets light up with string lights each night. It’s quiet and beautiful; snow all around you, just like Jamie wanted. You forget to run proper errands so Christmas Eve dinner ends up being grilled cheeses and a bottle of wine. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Together, you curl up on the couch with books. The fire’s on and you’re both a little buzzed from the wine. You keep tiptoeing back and forth to the kitchen to refill your glasses, until Jamie finally gets tired of pretending like she doesn’t notice that the only reason you’re doing it is to show off your bare legs every time you walk by her.

She throws her book aside, takes a rough hold of your t-shirt, which barely reaches the tops of your thighs, and then draws you right into her lap.

“God,” she says, between kisses. “You’re driving me crazy, Poppins.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, grinning, rocking your hips down. 

The heat of the fire spreads in the air all around you.

Jamie makes love to you right there on the couch, lets you make love to her back as you sink to your knees and pull her to your mouth. She comes with her fingers tightened in your hair and a string of swear words falling from her lips, and you can’t help but kiss your way back up her body and say, “Taking the Lord’s name in vain, huh? And on Christmas Eve of all nights…”

She laughs, pulls you closer. “Come here.”

“I am here,” you mumble teasingly.

Jamie’s expression is all bliss and pleasure as she shakes her head, grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and then pulls you so close to her. “No, _here_ ,” she says, wrapping you in her arms. You can’t feel anything besides her skin and her breath and the tremor of her voice as she whispers, “Don’t you dare go anywhere else. Don’t you dare leave me.”

You kiss her softly, and you know she means right now, you know she means _don’t leave me right now,_ but what you have with her—it’s so expansive and warm and _good_ , that you can’t stop yourself from saying, “What about our one day at a time?”

Jamie stills, and you know that she didn’t mean it that way; that she didn’t mean to make you think of any of that. But now she is, and you are, too.

She runs a hand through your hair, then says, “What about it, babe?”

You bite your lip at the pet name. 

_One day at a time._ She’d said it, all those months ago, as a way to calm you down. As a way to stop you from worrying about the future, about what would happen and if you’d even be around for it to happen at all. You’ve been doing a great job at taking things day by day, but maybe… Maybe you can allow yourself to be a little less careful.

“I don’t want to go anywhere else,” you say. “I don’t want to leave you.” She tightens her arms around you, kissing your neck softly. “What if—” you say, the idea slowly forming. “—what if we would take it one day at a time, but somewhere a bit more… permanent?”

You can feel the soft beginning of a smile on her lips. “Permanent?”

“Sometimes, I—” You push back from her a bit, to look her in the eyes. You know you’re blushing but you don’t care. “Sometimes I think of what it would be like, of what we could do.” Her eyes narrow, intrigued, and you ramble on. “And I know we don’t really know what’s going to happen, but I look at you, and I—I get all these small, little ideas. Like maybe we could run a coffee place together. In some town, somewhere. A town like this. Some place we like. Or—or we could own a flower shop, and you could take care of the plants and I could, I don’t know, I could… make you tea—”

Jamie’s mouth twitches. “ _Dani_ …”

“I want to,” you say. “I want to, with you.”

Jamie bites down on her bottom lip, and then kisses you. She kisses you for a long time, and then she whispers, “God, you’re something else…”

It sounds like a glimpse of future.

:::

The next morning, you wake up early, way before she does. You wrap yourself in layers of clothing and disappear into the town. You find the only place that’s open, a little indoor market you visited the day before to make a deal with the owner. You return to the cabin with every single red rose the place had in stock.

When you get back, the cabin smells like coffee and Jamie is in the kitchen making breakfast.

“Where’d you go? It’s so early, I thought maybe—” Her eyes go wide when she sees the enormous bouquet. “Dani, are you—”

The _out of your mind_ dies on her tongue as you kiss her. “Merry Christmas.”

She takes the flowers, carefully, delicately. Her bottom lip trembles a bit when she says, “They cut some of the stems off wrong.”

“I’m sure you can fix it,” you say, and then Jamie presses you against the kitchen counter and kisses you so hard that you go breathless.

“Yes,” she says when she pulls back. “Yes, let’s do it. Let’s open a damn flower shop.” She kisses you again. “Yes, Dani. _Yes_.”

:::

She finds you a moonflower.

She tells you she’s in love with you.

You race her to the backroom of the store, where you crowd her against the wall and kiss her until she’s begging for your fingers, begging for your mouth—and you give her exactly what she wants, because you love her, love her, love her back.

Once in a blue moon someone comes around who’s worth the effort, and it’s _her_.

It’s always been her.

:::

A ghost story. A love story. Same thing, really.

:::

Time wraps itself around the two of you and these become your memories.

The Sunday when Jamie promises she will put together the new bed and instead spends all of it on the balcony in the sun with her book; when she has to kiss you up against the abandoned mattress later to distract you from getting mad at her for it.

All the long nights wrapped around each other in bed, watching old films; Jamie shushing you whenever you’re talking through the dialogue again; pushing your cold toes against her calves in revenge. 

That time you find a thrown-out Christmas tree in the street after Christmas and New Years have both has long passed, and you still decide to drag it all the way through the store, through the backroom, up the stairs and into the flat, saying “We’re bringing Christmas back!” And Jamie gets annoyed about all the needles on the floor, but then proceeds to decorate the whole thing with you, anyway, and you leave it standing in your flat well into January. 

You figure out exactly what she likes and _how_ she likes it. You mess up her curls and suck dark hickeys into the base of her throat. You let her hold your hips down hard when she fucks you, because she loves watching you get increasingly desperate. You smirk and strip off your clothes at all sorts of inconvenient moments because Jamie’s breath will hitch and she will give you this _look,_ and she can’t ever resist it, no matter how frustrated she gets about being late. You know she likes it slow on certain nights; how she just wants to feel every inch of your skin, warm and soft against hers; you know how quiet and reverend she can get when you tell her you love her.

There is so much _good_.

Laughing in the shower together. The flush of her cheeks when you get into an argument. Baking pancakes in the morning; syrup dripping off her fingers.

All the while, your beast is sound asleep—

—until she starts to wake up.

:::

You can feel her more clearly—Viola. It’s like the jungle has started tightening around you, closing you in. You blink and there she is; in the reflection of the silverware, in the stream of water from the faucet, when you move around a corner and are suddenly too close to a glass window.

You can feel her inside of you, too; shaking off the slumber, getting stronger.

When you ask Jamie to marry you—the happiest of happy things, really—the Lady in the Lake is right there with you, lodged behind your heart, spreading fear into your body. You were silly to hope that maybe you would be untouched; that you could live any kind of life of permanence, of future.

But Jamie laughs so much that she cries, and she kisses you so hard, so desperately, that you can’t help but sink into it, feeling lucky despite everything. Lucky that you get to have this woman in your life. Lucky that you get to love her, that she loves you back.

Buried deep inside of you, Viola waits.

:::

Paris is not exactly a honeymoon—“We didn’t even throw a party yet,” Jamie says, “We can’t go on honeymoon until after we’ve had a real party.”—but you know the two of you are definitely celebrating, and isn’t that what honeymoons are all about?

You stay in a nice, artsy hotel in the Latin Quarter and you don’t leave the bed for the entire first and second day; sleeping off the jetlag and having sex and eating freshly baked pastries whenever you feel like it. You smoke on the balcony in your bathrobes, and try to have conversations with French accents, and it’s as close to perfect as anything.

“This is the best news. I’m so happy for you both.” 

It’s a good thing that you’ve made reservations at Owen’s restaurant for Friday night, or maybe you wouldn’t have seen anything of the city at all.

“Cheers, mate,” Jamie says, smiling.

It truly is a beautiful restaurant; the lighting, Hannah’s picture on the wall; what Owen’s saying about people becoming regulars, how good it feels to—

The waiter moves to fill your glass and you catch sight of Viola’s face in the reflection of the water pitcher. 

It’s only a moment, but it’s enough to make your blood run cold.

You drift in and out of the conversation about Miles and Flora, about their holiday in France a few months back.

“Flora’s got a _boyfriend_?” you hear Jamie say. “She’s twelve.”

Owen laughs. “She’s seventeen.”

You’re lost in your thoughts, caught on the memory of Flora’s face. Her deep brown eyes, the way she had grabbed your hand on the first day you met. How she had cried and shivered when you carried her out of that dark, awful, _evil_ lake _—_

“So, they’re all happy?”

You can feel Jamie watching you closely without needing to look at her.

Owen meets your eyes. “Yeah. It’s interesting, though, the way they talk about Bly.”

A shiver runs down your spine. “You talked about what happened?”

The three of you all feel the change in the air, the way the memories are suddenly close again, pulled up from under the surface.

Owen shakes his head. “No, that’s what’s interesting. They don’t remember anything about it.”

“What?”

“Nothing?”

You and Jamie say it almost at the same time.

“No,” Owen says quietly. “Well, just the kids. Henry still… remembers all of it. But I mentioned Hannah, and Flora asked me who I was talking about. It’s been this way a while, it turns out.”

“So…” Your voice goes a bit hoarse. “Well, if they don’t remember Hannah, they don’t remember…”

You trail off and Jamie supplies, “So, they’ve just forgotten it all?”

“They know they used to stay at Bly when they were children, said they recognized Hannah’s picture,” Owen continues. “But only as the woman who used to stay there with them. The details, the specific moments—” Again, a rush of cold through your body. “—the fear of it all, that we were so afraid would infect the rest of their lives, has just… faded away.”

You nod.

Next to you, Jamie has shifted closer into your space, the hand on your back pressed against you with just a bit more weight.

“All that’s left is the shape of it,” Owen says.

It’s uneasy, the feeling that comes over you. The dark emptiness, the urge to suddenly try and steady yourself against the overwhelming sense of defeat.

“Do you think Henry will… tell them?” you say. 

Jamie’s watching you, and you know she can’t hear the end of your thought; _do you think he will make them remember again?_

You know she can’t feel any of the shadows that are growing in your chest, and that it’s a good thing; that you wouldn’t wish it for it to be any other way, that you, and you alone, have to face the Lady in the Lake, but it’s still—

You still—

“Would you?”

It feels lonely.

Right here at this table with two of your favorite people in the whole world; you feel so frighteningly lonely.

Like they could forget you any second and you’d fade away, right at this table.

Time is like confetti.

“I mean, by the signs of it, they’re thriving,” Owen says, cutting through your thoughts. “I’d say… just let them be. Let them live their lives the way they should. Without anything hanging over them. They deserve that.” Owen makes sure to look you in the eyes. “We all do.”

You give the slightest nod, because what else are you to do?

You don’t have the words to explain how shaky it suddenly feels, how the fact that Miles and Flora don’t remember seems to have changed the very anatomy of your body.

Jamie’s arm is tight around you, holding onto you—and yes, she’s still here, this is still happening, but will this also be how she remember it?

What if she—

:::

Your beast in the jungle growls.

:::

_What is it like to be a memory? What is it like to belong to people just until they forget about you? What’s the difference between a ghost story and a love story? Was there a difference?_

_Are you still here when everyone’s forgotten?_

_Are you even in this story at all?_

:::

Jamie takes you up to the roof of the hotel, the summer night still warm around you. You’ve spent the day in Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, wearing sundresses, reading books in the sun and settling in the freedom of being in a place where no one knows you.

You feel calmer than you were after leaving Owen’s restaurant last night, but you’re not exactly at ease.

Jamie can tell, of course.

“Look, Poppins,” she says, taking your hand as she leads you up the stairs and onto the wide, flat roof. “I know your head’s going a million miles a minute. But I talked to that nice valet down at the front desk—and, mind you, I had to be quite convincing because this place is normally off-limits for guests…”

You chuckle and squeeze her hand.

She leads you to the edge, where a sturdy balcony frames the roof. “Anyway, I figured a little stargazing might give you some peace of mind,” she says. “What do you think?”

The lights of the city are all around you, as far out as you can see. Coming up from below, you can hear the faint sounds of the cafés, of people laughing as they drink their wine; rapid French you can’t wrap your head around. Above you, the night is dark, save for the scattered specks of tiny stars. 

You step closer to Jamie, bringing your hand up to push a loose curl behind her ear. “Have I told you I love you?”

She grins. “Once or twice.”

You smile into the kiss, wrapping your arms around her waist and letting yourself fall into her steady presence. When you pull back, she’s looking at you closely. “You good?”

It takes effort to nod. “Yeah… Yeah, just—”

Your throat closes off.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Jamie says. “Being here, seeing Owen, hearing all about Henry and those two little rascals again—”

It makes you laugh and Jamie looks pleased.

“Yes,” you say, and then, because she’s here and holding you, and you _love_ her _,_ you add, “Sorry if I’ve been—I mean, I know I’m in my head a lot, and—and not really talking to you about any of it, and it’s supposed to be our honeymoon, and—”

She shushes you. “It’s okay.”

You feel tears prick in your eyes. “It’s not—it’s not okay, I’m supposed to—”

“Dani.”

“I know I’m so much work,” you choke out. “Such hard work. All my panic and my doubts and questions—”

“ _Hey._ ” She presses her hands to your cheeks, holds your face. There’s enough control in her voice that it finally makes you pause, makes you breathe in, raggedly but deeply; the evening air around you, the faint citrus smell of the hotel shampoo in Jamie’s hair. You miss the lavender one she uses at home.

She’s stroking her thumb over your jaw, and then she says, with half a smile. “You know I like hard work, right? Keeps me busy.”

All the panic rises. “ _See_ —I know you’re getting tired and I know I make things difficult and it’s not fair, you don’t deserve—”

“ _Dani_.” She cuts you off again. “I’m joking. It was a joke. Babe—” Her fingers tighten on your hip with a bit more desperation. “Baby, I don’t know how else to tell you this—I don’t…” She tips your chin up until you’re looking at you. “I _love_ you. Okay? And I—I love loving you. It’s not…” She looks pleading, like she needs you to understand this. “If this is work, then I’ll choose that work every day. Over anything.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

She runs her thumb over your bottom lip. “Okay?”

You nod, swallowing thickly, before nodding.

Jamie’s expression softens. She slides her hand down until she’s holding yours, squeezing it briefly; just the slightest confirmation that she’s serious, that you really are worth the work, the panic, the—

“So, you won’t forget?”

You’ve blurted out the words before you can stop yourself.

Jamie’s brows furrow close together. “Forget?”

You bite down on your bottom lip, step just the slightest bit away from her. “Miles and Flora, they—they don’t remember—” Your voice cracks. “They don’t remember Hannah and they don’t remember Bly, which means they must not remember—and I can’t stop thinking, what if—if _you_ —”

Jamie’s inhale is sharp.

“ _No_ ,” she says, before you can finish your sentence. There’s a hint of something hard in her voice. “I won’t even let you say this.”

“You don’t know what will—”

“How could you think I would ever forget you?” she says, and it’s the first time you really hear the edge of panic in _her_ voice. “Dani, seriously, I won’t stand here and let you imply that—”

She stops talking abruptly, shocked into anger like really can’t believe it, and out of nowhere, you’re reminded of something, out of nowhere you’re back in the garden at Bly and Miles has just ripped up all of Jamie’s roses and she’s so upset, anger surging through her body, because she loves them _so much_ , with such careful attention, and—

She’s never been shy about how hard she loves.

“How could you really think—” she says again, softer now, more broken, and you need her so much, but you sometimes forget she needs you back just as much.

It’s only a small thing to close the distance and kiss her.

She’s all tense edges and strained muscles. But your mouth is soft and patient and she falls into it after a moment, kissing you back until all the anger fades away.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

She nods. “It’s okay, it’s—Poppins, I know you’re scared, and I’m—I’m, too. But you don’t have to be scared about this because I’m never—” Her breath hits against your mouth. “— _never_ going to forget you. I couldn’t. I promise. You got that?”

You nod, hands tightening on her jacket. “Got it.”

“Good.” She smiles a bit, then gets a teasing glint in her eyes. “Every damn day,” she says, “I’m gonna be thinking about you…” You can feel the corners of your mouth curl up into a smile, and Jamie says, “About the shit way you make tea, even after I’ve taught you a dozen times already.”

You laugh, the sound of it loud. “Yeah?”

Jamie grins. “Gonna be thinking about that laugh of yours, how you always think bad films are really funny, and it drives me crazy.” She presses her mouth to your jaw, smiling into your skin. “Gonna think about how you always over-water the plants and nearly kill them.” Mouth to your neck. “Your bad taste in fashion…”

“ _Hey_.”

She’s completely unfazed. “Your eyes,” she mumbles, lips against the spot just under your ear that always makes you squirm. “How your hair is all over the pillow and in my face in the morning. That you always leave your clothes wherever the hell you want, walking around half naked, like you don’t know that I’m… _God_.”

Something tightens in your stomach. “Oh?” 

Jamie kisses you, heated and deep. When she pulls back, she touches a finger to your bottom lip. “That smart, pretty mouth of yours…”

You can feel the arousal building in your body, settling between your legs. It sounds breathless when you say, “What else?”

Jamie smirks, raises an eyebrow. Her hand tightens on your hip and she pushes you forward just a little bit, until your back hits the balcony edge.

“I’m gonna think about your voice,” she says slowly, hand drifting a bit, until she’s got the fabric of your sundress between her fingers, hitching it up. “How it sounds early in the morning, when you wake up. All hoarse and cute. How it sounds when you’re mad at me. Or when you say my name—” Her hand slips under the hem of the dress and between your legs. “—whenever you breathe it in my ear…” You bite down on your bottom lip to stop yourself from moaning as she runs her hand over the edge of your panties. “—or scream it.”

“ _Jamie_.”

“Fuck,” she swears. 

It’s easy like that; Jamie’s mouth is hot and needy on yours, swallowing your gasps as she slides her fingers over and over, and then inside of you. She’s got one of your legs wrapped around her hip, pushing you back against the balcony with her weight, and you don’t care that you’re outside, don’t care that anyone on the street could look up and—

Jamie curls her fingers just right, and you nearly scream. 

You’re already so close, so desperate.

“I love you,” she says into your throat. “That’s it, baby. God, you’re—that’s—” She cuts herself off, kissing you instead, before saying into your mouth, “—so good, so beautiful.” 

You gasp and go tight around her fingers, because that’s all you want to be for her.

(Nothing evil, nothing dark, just—)

You come, shaking into her arms and she’s holding you, kissing you, and everything is still—

( _Good_.)

:::

_I saw her._

_She’s there._

_I keep seeing her._

:::

“You can’t think the worst.”

She’s insistent.

“We can have so many more years together.”

She’s insistent and beautiful.

“Dani, we can have so many more years…”

You’re a mess of dark water and slowly waking anger and the past of a dead wife forgotten by her manor.

“Oh, baby, come here.”

You’re going to die before the Lady in the Lake will ever rest.

:::

There’s water everywhere; she’s everywhere around her and you can’t shake her off. You once read that drowning is the most painful way to die, and still you can’t get yourself to turn off the faucet; she’s inside of you and she wants out and she will make you _look_ before she takes you, and sometimes you don’t know if there’s any difference between you and her—

“Do you see her?”

Jamie’s voice sounds distant, too distant. “I only see you.”

You’re slipping—

 _Fading_ —

:::

“If you can’t feel anything, she says, “Then I’ll feel everything for the both of us.”

You have never loved like this before.

:::

_What is it like to be a memory?_

_What if I’m here, sitting next to you, but I’m just really her?_

:::

When you get to Bly, the lake welcomes you.

 _There you are_ , it says. _I’ve been waiting for you._

_Come home._

:::

The gardener will try to drag you out of the lake and revive you with her own damned hands if she must.

Once, in a different life, in a different conversation about death, she had said, _on some level, it must be a relief._ She’s said, _I’d be relieved. Losing yourself like that. Being worn away a little bit every day._ She’d been younger and not yet in love, and she’d said, _Just shoot me. Put me out of my misery. It’s not fair on anyone._

What you’ve done, it isn’t a matter of fairness. It’s a matter of love.

You would think her younger self would understand that.

And yet—

She will kick and scream and _fight_ to pull you back up from under the water and drag you back to your miserable, empty, fading away excuse of an existence, because fair or not, she’s is not ready to let you go—and this is also love, which is exactly why you can’t let her any closer.

You are the Lady in the Lake.

But you are not Viola.

:::

_It’s you. It’s me. It’s us._

They are opposites, love and possession.

You will not have her. You’re not meant to have her. You will stay in the lake, and not ever take her, nor be taken by her, and she will curse you for it for a while, but they are opposites, and this is love. 

You could have chosen to have her forever, but a forever possession is nothing you really, truly hold at all.

:::

In the time that passes, in all the years that follow, the gardener tells herself that, in the water, you must have forgotten the details of your life together.

What other reason could there be for her loneliness? For the fact that she stares and stares into water and never sees you? For the fact that she leaves her door open at night, and yet, you never come?

You must have forgotten, she thinks. Faded completely away into nothingness, like everything else. Like the ghost story of Bly Manor—from real to memory to nothing.

But that’s not how it works.

:::

Down—

Deep down—

You dream of grass against your bare legs, the smell of dirt and lavender, of dark red lipstick smeared across your neck.

You are here; on the edge of existence; kept in a shapeless dream by the power of a promise, and a promise alone.

_How could you think I would ever forget you?_

:::

Maybe a ghost story and a love story are really the same thing.

:::

You sleep, you sleep, you sleep, until—

“I have a story.”

You wake.

“It isn’t really my story.”

You walk.

“It belongs to someone I know.”

:::

 _How am I supposed to live a life that he’s not in,_ Flora says, after, tears in her eyes.

:::

Dead does not mean gone.

A little girl once told you that. A girl who doesn’t remember her own words.

Time’s a funny thing.

It’s like—

:::

You wake. You walk.

The gardener tells her tale, and something is clicking, slowly clicking into place.

Your world is reconfiguring itself in a new way, in a different way. The shapeless water taking form; shadows moving slowly into clarity; spinning and spinning wider; a new and tiny point of gravity; a girl on the night before her wedding, who pauses, and—

:::

 _You know it’s funny,_ the niece says,

:::

If no one remembers you, are you even here?

:::

_I thought you might be making it up just off that name. But then I figured how could you know that?_

:::

Do you think Henry will… tell them?

Do you think he will make them remember again?

Would you?

:::

_It’s a funny coincidence, I suppose._

:::

You can will a whole house into a nightmare if you refuse to leave the living.

You can keep anyone here as long as you wish.

All you have to do is—

:::

_My middle name is Flora._

:::

The wedding is beautiful. A perfect, special day, one for the books, really. The flower arrangements are wonderful, the music tasteful. The cook tells bad jokes to entertain the guests. The nephew toasts to love and luck and good memories. The uncle is old, but dances like he’s young. And the gardener watches, sips her champagne, and thinks of her love.

Thinks of her wife, at the bottom of a lake.

She breathes in slowly so as to not feel too overwhelmed by the ache of missing her.

This is a time of celebration, after all.

She doesn’t know that in the chaos of everything, when looking at all of these lovely people that showed up for her, the niece has the sudden and strange realization that once in her life, when she was very small, she—like the girl in the story—used to have an au pair.

A strange and dark memory of the manor she grew up in.

:::

_There she is._

:::

You were kind and good, and she remembers. 

:::

Jamie sleeps in an arm chair with the door cracked open just a bit.

You place your hand softly on her shoulder, careful and sweet, like you would touch a flower, like you would touch every single thing you’ve ever loved—and, like this, you come home.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The past few days, I got so taken by this idea of remembering as a way to keep someone tied to the world, and what if Jamie's telling of the story at Flora's wedding would trigger Miles and Flora's memories, so that Dani's connection to the world would get stronger again... I just had to start writing it and see what happens. I know it's not an extremely tight theory, but I do hope that this paid off in one way or another! Let me know what you think in the comments or come talk to me at e-lec-tric-in-di-go on tumblr.


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